


In the Bleak Midwinter

by Carice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22035736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carice/pseuds/Carice
Summary: Set a year after the events of the 'Abominable Bride'. Molly Hooper's career in the morgue is over and she has thrown herself into her suffragette activities with Mary Watson, who has become a close friend. Mary, for her part, has had enough of witnessing the brooding looks between Hooper and Holmes and has decided that Molly needs to take - ahem - matters into her own hands, and soon. The stage is set, the curtain rises....(humbly gifted to the brilliant MrsMCrieff who has kept us all in great Christmas Sherlolly Fics for a while....)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 37
Kudos: 170
Collections: 2019 Twelve Days of Sherlolly





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsMCrieff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMCrieff/gifts).



  
As they entered her drawing room, Mary Watson observed her dear friend, Molly Hooper, as that petite but determined lady shrugged off her hat followed by her Suffragette sash and flopped on the chaise lounge, with a sigh of exhaustion. Mary bustled to the sideboard and poured two generous sherries into her best crystal glasses. As she handed one to the half reclining Miss Hooper, Mary smiled. “Molly, that was a near escape. I think the time has come when we need to think about whether we are really prepared to be arrested for this cause – or whether we curb our activities, at least for a while”.  
  
Molly sat up and took a sip of the sherry, grimacing a little – she was not a drinker. She was still a little out of breath, having run with Mary through Hyde Park and nearly all the way to the Watson's home, the better to avoid the attentions of numerous policemen who had been attempting to – as Molly saw it – stop a perfectly legal and peaceful demonstration. Just because it happened to be held on the day the Queen was leaving London for Windsor Castle, on the exact route of the protest......  
  
Molly smiled kindly at Mary. “I'm sorry, Mary – my reputation can hardly be ruined further, but I do understand that as a Doctor's wife, you do have to be careful”.  
  
Mary sat down next to her friend, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. “Nonsense, Molly – don't talk such piffle about reputations”. Mary paused, then took a deep breath. “The thing is – I am not entirely sure, but I am almost convinced that I may be expecting a child, so I think I may need to be a little more – well, careful I suppose”.  
  
Molly's face went from amazement to joy in an instant, and she placed her sherry down on the little table beside her in order to embrace her friend.  
  
“Oh Mary, of course! How wonderful! Have you told John?”  
  
Before Mary could answer, the door to the drawing room fairly burst open, and in upon them arrived John Watson, pipe in hand, remonstrating loudly with Sherlock Holmes, who was waving a dismissive hand.  
  
“Really, Holmes, I must protest -”  
  
“No, you mustn't Watson, you really mustn't. Particularly - “ Holmes looked round in that particular way of his, straight backed, moving his body as he looked instead of just turning his head “given that the ladies are present”.  
  
John Watson bit down his words, shaking his head slightly, but taking his friend's message. He crossed the room to Mary and bent to kiss her forehead, then to bow politely to Molly. Sherlock, as ever, stood stiffly, just nodding slightly in their direction.  
  
As ever, on seeing Mr Holmes, Molly's heart leapt, and as ever, she reined herself and her thoughts back in, her mouth a thin line, her nod to him the slightest movement. To her surprise Holmes moved to stand directly before her, looking down at her, his expression serious.  
  
“You have been at the Hyde Park demonstration, I perceive”.  
  
Molly nodded, matching his expression for gravity. “I don't know how you perceive it, but yes of course, you're right”.  
  
“You are occupying nearly all of your time in the suffragette cause”. It was not a question.  
  
Molly's cheeks reddened. “Yes. I must have occupation, Holmes – Mr Holmes”.  
  
Molly felt heat suffusing not just her face but her entire body at his closeness. She observed, peripherally, that both John and Mary were watching them. She felt, as she always did, the humiliation of her predicament; the solving of the case of the 'Abominable Bride' almost a year ago had clearly opened up to Police and the authorities the identities of the ladies involved; Sherlock Holmes had somehow managed to ensure that Inspector Lestrade and his brother officers at Scotland Yard had made absolutely no prosecutions, however it was clear that due to Lestrade's close links with the Pathology Department at St Bartholomew's Hospital, that her own position there was utterly forfeit - Inspector Lestrade had absolutely insisted on knowing the names of the ladies involved so that he could check his records for any other or more serious crimes in their pasts, and he began to dig far too far in to the history of Miss Molly Hooper and her sudden 'disappearance' a few years before the arrival of Dr Matthew Hooper at the Morgue in St Bartholomew's.  
  
Some uncomfortable questioning from the Inspector at the Morgue a week or so after the events of that fateful evening, and Molly went home to her lodging knowing that her tenure as the Pathologist at her beloved hospital had come to an end.  
  
She went to see Mary Watson, who had already begun to be a true friend, and explained the necessity to live once more as Miss Molly Hooper, and asked her to explain this to her husband and to Sherlock Holmes. Subsequently, both men had spoken to her to try to assist, but there was nothing to be done; even Sherlock Holmes could not interfere in the due process of Scotland Yard.  
  
So the strangest months of her life pad passed, and now another winter, another Christmas was upon them. Molly had found purpose in the Suffragette movement, but as she spoke of this to Holmes in answer to him, she glanced at her dear friend Mary, and felt the stab of tears behind her eyes.  
  
Holmes hadn't answered her, and Molly suddenly felt she was losing her friend, who now would have matters in the domestic sphere to occupy her; being a mother. Molly felt she had been fooling herself this year. She had no purpose, no meaningful occupation, no family, no real friends outside this room.  
  
And one of those people was more, and less, than a friend, and sometimes it hurt too much to bear. She loved him, adored him, but she knew he was not a man for the softer things. Even if he had been, he was a man of glamour, of style, and he would have a woman such as the beautiful and famously talented singer – Irene Adler, as Molly had read described in one of John's stories in 'The Strand' magazine. She had cried bitter tears at reading how, 'to Sherlock Holmes, she was always 'The Woman'. She never allowed herself to read it again.  
  
Seeing Mary disappearing from her into domestic bliss suddenly became too much for Molly and the threatening tears started to gather in her eyes. She rose, moving across the room to gather her coat and hat, and bid a very hasty farewell to Mary, nodding briefly to the two gentlemen.  
  
Mary called after her “Molly, don't forget our cocktail party tomorrow – for Christmas Eve!”  
  
Molly was hurrying along the street, finally giving way to the tears that wanted to make their way down her cold, pinched cheeks.  
  
In the Watson's cosy drawing room, Sherlock Holmes now stood, his hands behind his back, staring morosely into the fire.  
  
Ever perceptive, Mary said to him “You could not have done more for Miss Hooper, Sherlock. She is an intelligent woman, she knew that her deception could not go on for ever”.  
  
Holmes waved away her comment with an imperious hand. “Mycroft was right, for once. This is a fight we must lose; these ridiculous notions of women being unable to perform certain functions which they are clearly more than fitted for -” he ground his teeth.  
  
Mary knew what he meant – he'd often remarked that Hooper was the best pathologist at Bart's.  
  
Dr Watson laughed quietly, taking out his pipe and pointing at Holmes with it. “How you have changed, Holmes. I remember the time when you believed that women – what was it you said? - “even the best of them” are not to be trusted. You said, in fact, that women's motives were, what was it – inscrutable?”  
  
John Watson chuckled even though Holmes threw him the most withering of stares. “I think I am not above admitting, Watson, that my opinions have been altered by experience. I know the two most intelligent women in London, after all”.  
  
Mary's clear eyes examined Holmes closely as John said, frowning a little, “With that assessment of Mary, of course I agree, however you well know Holmes that Miss Irene Adler is no longer in London...”  
  
Holmes made a disgusted sound in his throat. “I was not talking of that woman”.  
  
John looked more confused, Sherlock moved across to the Window, hands in pockets, looking for all the world like a lover pining over a lost love, and a glint appeared in Mary Watson's blue eyes as a plan, long considered, began to take solid form.  
  
She had seen enough longing looks (Holmes) blushes (Molly) and brooding silences (both of them) to know that it was time to give this delicate situation a nudge in the right direction.  
  
Watching her husband coax Holmes back into the room with discussion of the case of the day, Mary sat back a little to ease her aching limbs, a hand unconsciously but protectively over her stomach. Oh, this was going to be so enjoyable, and at Christmas too...what could be better?  
  
Molly spent the next morning in an existential crisis. Mary's news seemed to have caused her to look at her own life as a completely wasted one. Her fulfilling employment was over, as was her deception, closing off future employment of the same kind, leaving her with – what? Yes she loved the suffragette cause and she would never give it up. But it was a cause, not a job.  
  
And, since she had been living as a woman again, somehow the problem with Sherlock Holmes had worsened exponentially. As Matthew Hooper, it was clearly an utter impossibility for anything to happen between them. However when she was with him as Molly, there was no barrier, and her feelings were just too strong. Holmes's utter disinterest in her was a wound, of course. But his disinterest in all women made it better, less personal, and made it possible for her to rise above it and keep a polite but distant kind of interaction with him.  
  
But sometimes – oh, it was just so painful to love and want someone so much and to know you could never even touch them.  
  
By the middle of the day, Molly had come to the realisation that she needed to get back to medicine again. Her modest inheritance from her parents was certainly enough to live respectably on, but her brain was going to atrophy if she did not use it to it's fullest. She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and decided that she would work again. Even if it meant training as a nurse, if that was all society would allow her, that was where she would start – for now.  
  
Meanwhile, Mary Watson had also been thinking hard, and by lunchtime she had sent a note to Molly's little lodging house, requesting that her friend do her the courtesy of arriving early for the cocktail party that evening, there being something very particular that she wished to discuss with Molly. Mary suggested Molly bring her gown and some overnight necessities, and she could stay in the guest room at the Watson's.  
  
Molly was determined that she would enjoy the evening. After Christmas, the task of finding herself a studentship would begin in earnest. She felt more settled in herself than she had in a long time. She was grateful to her friend for showing her that it was time to commit to something again. Molly chose her gown and accessories in a particularly carefree mood; she felt liberated by having a direction again, and looked forward to seeing Mary and John.  
  
Molly decided to walk to the Watsons', despite there being a very light dusting of snow on the pavements. She had only her overnight bag to carry, and she always enjoyed walking through her beloved London. It was only around a half hour walk, but by the time she had reached their attractive detached home, the snow had begun to fall in earnest, and Molly's face was red and damp under her cloak – as was her hair, the moisture having soaked clean through the fabric. Molly admired the warmth of the orange glow from the candle and fire lit rooms, as she entered from the black and white of the night outside.  
  
Jane, the perky maid, expertly divested Molly of her cloak, and and Molly knew she would have the cloak warming by the fire in the wide hall to dry before the minute was past. Molly caught her reflection in the little mirror on the hat stand as she made to go into the drawing room, and tutted at the sight of her hair. If she didn't take it down and dry it, what a frizzy mess it would be all evening. She felt very comfortable in the home of her dear friend, so she shrugged and quickly unpinned it, letting it tumble around her shoulders.  
  
As Jane announced Molly into the drawing room, Molly made straight for Mary, combing her fingers through her hair. “Forgive my appearance, Mary, but the snow got the better of me, and I need to deal with this”, she indicated her hair, “before it becomes rat's tails”.  
  
Mary saw instantly that fate had gifted her a little extra gem of an opportunity here to bolster her plans for this evening. What gentleman did not experience the thrill of the unaccustomed intimacy of seeing a woman with her hair down? Mary was convinced that even Sherlock Holmes would be as affected by seeing Molly that way as any prospective lover would be....it was just that Sherlock Holmes had no idea that he was a prospective lover. The dear, silly genius.  
  
Someone had to show that man what he needed and wanted. And that person was going to be Mary Watson, this very evening. Never mind three ghosts on Christmas Eve – Mary Watson was not a ghost, but she was going to show Sherlock Holmes what all his Christmas futures could be, if only he let himself have them. The only difficulty was going to be getting both Holmes and Hooper to realise that her plan was right. Time for a frank talk with Miss Hooper.  
  
Mary stood decisively, and took Molly's hand before Molly could sit down. A talk like this needed to happen upstairs.  
  
“Come along, Molly – as my note said, I want very particularly to discuss something with you, and it needs to be in my bedroom”.  
  
“Oh! Very well” said Molly as she was half dragged up the stairs by her friend. “and there was something I had to tell you, also, Mary”.  
  
Mary sat them both down, and enjoined Molly to tell her news first. On hearing of Molly's ideas for employment, Mary was pleased, and told her so. However, those plans in no way interfered with the others which Mary had been making, and she told Molly this too.  
  
“Now, Molly” Mary put a hand on her friend's forearm “I am going to speak frankly, and I know you well enough to know that you won't mind. I know that you have been in love with Sherlock Holmes for a long time”.  
  
Molly felt a blush to the roots of her hair. It was the first time anyone had ever said anything like this to her. She opened her mouth to reply but Mary cut her off, kindly, with a smile and carried on speaking. “What you don't know, and I don't know how but you really don't seem to, is that he is also in love with you. Yes, I know, I know, you don't believe me, Sherlock Holmes is a reasoning machine, not a man, et cetera et cetera...rubbish. He's a man like any other, in some ways. And when it comes to you, I can't spend another day of my life watching the two of you adore each other and not do anything about it”.  
  
Molly sat, stupefied, but trying to get across to Mary just how wrong she must be.  
  
“Mary, it is so like your wonderful nature to want the best for me, but really – really, Mary – you are quite wrong. Even if he were disposed to the idea of marriage, he would never – not with me”.  
  
“Tsk, again, rubbish! Molly you are oblivious when it comes to him. What about all the longing looks he gives you each time you are in the same room? What about the regular reports he receives from the Baker Street Irregulars, who he has stationed near your lodging to ensure you are safe on your travels? What about John telling me constantly that he has brooded on you and your life every day since that night of the Abominable Bride, that he composes music at all hours of day and night in your honour?”  
  
Molly shook her head, slowly “Well, you can't know the music is for me, Mary”.  
  
“Oh can't I? So I didn't peek and see the music is entitled in his own hand, 'MH'?”  
  
“Well it – it will surely be for his brother, whose initials those are...”  
  
Mary threw her head back and laughed. “Molly, no – Sherlock Holmes is not writing lilting, romantic music for his brother”.  
  
Molly started to feel a tiny nugget of something utterly thrilling in her chest. Hope.  
  
Mary looked serious. “I tried to speak to him about it, Molly, to encourage him to make you both happy. But he simply won't discuss it – the only thing he would say to me is that he would be a terrible husband, and that his activities, his dealings with the criminal classes, would put you at significant risk; that Baker Street is no place for a lady. But I know with one hundred per cent certainty, Molly, that he loves you. He will never put you in that position, however, because he sees it as a danger to you.”  
  
Molly stood, needing to move to help her process this information. Even she could not doubt what her friend was saying. It all had the veracity of real knowledge and of someone who had thought about the matter in great seriousness. Could it truly be that Sherlock Holmes did have feelings for her?  
  
Mary went on. “So, it is up to you, Molly, to move this situation on, if you really do want him. Now I know some women would come up with all kinds of convoluted plans for becoming engaged to someone else, and waiting for Sherlock to explode with jealousy, but that simply won't do. Sherlock would allow any engagement, even marriage, because he would truly believe it was better, safer, for you. He really is disgustingly selfless when it comes to you. No, Molly, the plan you need is far simpler...”  
  
Molly turned to look at her friend. Mary smiled and said “Seduction”.  
  
Now it was Molly's turn to laugh. She returned and sat opposite her friend on the bed. “Mary, since we're speaking frankly – I have never – I mean, I wouldn't know how to -”  
  
Mary patted her hand. “Yes, well I'm not surprised to hear you say that; after all, living as a man would be something of a hindrance to assignations. Don't worry Molly. You simply need to get him to a certain – uh, point....and then he will take over where you feel unsure”.  
  
Mary twinkled. Molly bit her lip. It felt as if the nugget of hope had become a bubble which was growing and might explode through her chest at any moment. What Mary described was too thrilling, too perfect.  
  
“Oh, Mary yes! I will try! But you'll have to help me. I'm hopeless. Just how open are you able to be with me? Because – well, because although human anatomy is very familiar to me and I know the mechanics...well, dead people are no teachers when it comes to knowing what to do.”  
  
Mary hugged her friend. “Well, let's begin. Firstly Molly – are you ready? By which I mean, for intimate relations? Because I do not mean to give you the impression that this is something you have to do. You can wait. A decent man will wait”.  
  
Molly bit her lip again. “When I'm with him Mary, I feel ready. I am not a young girl. I want to be with him in every way, and after all this time, I see no point in waiting....unless, unless, oh god, he might think me wanton, and be turned away from me?” Molly's brown eyes widened.  
  
Mary assured her friend that no, it was simply not a possibility that a man would be repulsed by knowing that the woman he loved wanted him back. She suggested to Molly that the best thing to do was for Molly to ask questions which Mary would do her best to answer.  
  
“Come” Mary said, sitting herself comfortably on the bed, leaning against the pillows with her feet up. She indicated for Molly to sit beside her. “This will probably feel easier for you if we're not facing each other”.  
  
Molly sat next to her friend and leaned back, her legs out in front of her and crossed at the ankle.  
  
She blushed, but carried on, spurred on by her curiosity.  
  
“How do I let him know, Mary? How do I change things?”  
  
“Well, I've thought about this. Sherlock is a man of reasoning, of logic. So you need to get past that, and get him thinking with another part of his anatomy. I'm convinced this is the key; there'll never be an argument against his worries about you, because they are founded on good reason. So I believe you have to show him, not tell him, that in life sometimes the best way to happiness is to throw good reason out of the window and to give way to your heart. Be open with him, tell him you love him and want him. I do not believe that Sherlock Holmes will have any way of anticipating that, nor fighting it. You will disarm him completely. And if you can add on to that some physical contact with him....well, it will fog his brain and he'll be at your mercy, I'm sure”.  
  
Molly bit her lip. “But, I don't want him to make any choices he will regret in the cold light of day...I don't want him to be fogged...”  
  
“Molly, don't worry. He is a grown man able to make his own decisions. This is simply allowing him to give in to something he desperately wants, already”.  
  
Molly nodded. “Alright. Next question” Molly blushed, determinedly regarding the ceiling above her head. “Does it really hurt – the first time?”  
  
Mary nodded. “Yes. It did me, certainly. I can only discuss my own experience, of course. But it wasn't terrible. It's a kind of burning pain which eases a little throughout the act. It felt a little bruised after, and the next time we did it. But with a gentle, considerate man, it won't be horrible”.  
  
Molly bit her lip again, smiled, and turned her head to Mary, to find her friend smiling back. They both pealed out a laugh, at the sheer oddity of discussing this kind of thing, and as far as Molly was concerned, at hearing details of John Watson in the bedroom!  
  
“So, not horrible....but did you actually enjoy it? One hears and reads that women don't – shouldn't – that they lay and wait for it to be over...but then Mary, I think that can't be true for everyone, surely? Our natural instincts to reproduce, our survival as a species, surely can't be founded on something that only one gender wants to do?”  
  
“Exactly right, I think Molly. No, I think that view is outmoded now. We are near to a new century, after all. With an enlightened man for a lover, you will get pleasure from the act”.  
  
Molly freely asked whatever she wanted, and found her friend as frank as she could ever have wanted. Suffice to say that when the ladies finished their discussion, Molly felt armed with enough knowledge and enough courage to make a start with the Sherlock Holmes Situation, as Mary termed it; and furthermore, felt as though she now had a sister more than a good friend.  
  
“So, seeing you arrive with your hair down like this Molly, has given me an idea of the first salvo against Sherlock's defences. When he arrives, you will just happen to not know he is here, and be rushing into the drawing room to collect your overnight bag, and he will see all this glorious hair. It will be the first time he sees you in that way and it will be a good start”.  
  
Molly laughed. “Mary Watson, you are a force of nature. What did any of us do without you?”  
  
“Not much, that's the whole problem!” Mary laughed. “Or I wouldn't have to be orchestrating this!”.  
  
Within minutes, the ladies heard the arrival home of Watson, bringing Holmes with him. Apparently, Mary had insisted he attend this evening, and in return he had made her agree that she left him alone on Christmas Day. Mary bustled Molly along to the guest room, and got the maid to call her husband up.  
  
Thus it was, that five minutes later, Molly Hooper, dressed in a silk kimono dressing gown and with her hair down to her waist, entered the drawing room, ever so casually looking for her overnight bag.  
  
“Oh, there it is!” she said, and then affecting to have only just seen Holmes standing by the fire, she made a sound of surprise, holding the bag against her.  
  
“Oh, excuse me – I didn't realise – I'm just getting ready for the party this evening” Holmes stood, and stared at her. “Mary was kind enough to invite me”. Still, he stood and regarded her, his blink rate increasing. “Well, excuse me, Mr Holmes” Molly went on, and started to back towards the door by a step or two. Holmes cleared his throat, twice, and Molly saw his eyes flick to her body, her lips then back to her eyes. He licked his lips, just almost imperceptibly, but she was so focussed on him that she didn't miss a thing. “Good evening, Hooper – Miss Hooper”.  
  
Molly escaped from the room, smiling broadly, but feeling very fluttery. Standing before a man while dressed in such a way was certainly out of her experience.  
  
But the first part was done – the campaign had begun, and he had not been impervious to her, of that she was now sure...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snowy Christmas Eve brings a party and a resolution for Molly and Sherlock. The eagle eyed amongst you may notice a little inspiration from a certain scene in Elizabeth Gaskell's 'North and South'!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos and comments! I hope you enjoy the conclusion to this little piece of Victorian Christmas fluff - happy new decade everyone :-)

Sherlock Holmes stood stunned for a moment after Molly Hooper had left the room. Then he placed both hands up on the mantelpiece and let his head drop in between his arms, looking at the leaping flames in the grate below. He whistled out a long slow breath. 

The image of her in that – that thing she was wearing – her hair down, had stunned him. She was beautiful. He'd known of course that he found her visually appealing. He liked her warm brown eyes, her transforming smile, and he had to admit to his shame, that he liked her slight figure; womanly, but tiny enough to make him feel extra masculine around her. However, those were the thoughts he had spent the year banishing from his mind. He had been finding it increasingly hard to banish his admiration of her in general - how she had done what she had, succeeded in the man's world of the Morgue; her skill, her intelligence, her bravery. 

He shook his head, groaned and stood up straight, letting go of the mantelpiece and taking out his pipe as a distraction. 

How ironic if the great Sherlock Holmes were brought down by this seemingly humble woman. He grimly held on to his determination against her charms, however. He had made a decision many years ago to suppress the physical and the emotional because that was what the Work demanded, and it had served him incredibly well. 

But he had not met her, then. He groaned under his breath again. This was what came of sentiment – he should have refused Mary Watson's invitation. He knew in his heart of hearts that he'd said yes because it was another chance to be around Molly Hooper, and he detested himself for his weakness. However, his redemption would be that he did, and would, keep to his determination to keep Molly at a safe distance. It was for his peace of mind, yes, to keep the Work at the centre of his life, but it was just as much for her safety. It would be sheer madness to introduce a woman, a clear area of vulnerability on his part, for the criminal classes to target. He would never allow it. And if keeping her safe was all he could give her, then so be it. 

He knew however, that he would never be able to banish the sight of her this evening, her delicate curves and her hair, from his mind. 

Thankfully, John Watson returned to the drawing room with another early visitor who had just arrived – Inspector Lestrade. The Inspector had details of a new case to give them, which could not have come at a better time as far as Sherlock was concerned. The case had real promise – a cardboard box, sent to a respectable lady, containing two severed ears...different ears. Holmes was ready to set off for Islington there and then, however Lestrade and Watson were both minded to leave the poor lady alone on Christmas Eve, the better to enjoy their own; but they promised that as soon as Christmas Day were done, they would be arranging a visit for this fascinating puzzle to be further looked into. 

Sherlock was able to endure the start of the party by allowing his mind to wander around the edges of the scant facts he so far had regarding the new case. Mary had arrived downstairs, buzzing around with arriving guests. Sherlock was thankful that it appeared his reputation preceded him – not many people attempted to engage him in conversation, and those that did soon moved away. He had no small talk, and most appeared perturbed when he answered honestly when they enquired as to the details of his latest cases. Well, it wasn't his fault that there had been a spate of gruesome garrottings in Soho. 

For Sherlock, the evening went on pretty much as painfully as it had started. 

Mary had just asked Sherlock to see to turning down a guttering gas lamp in the hallway, when Molly began to hurry down the stairs, picking her skirts up so as not to trip. 

She greeted him in her usual friendly but reserved way, but it was how she looked which rendered Sherlock, for the second time that day, rooted to the spot. She wore a midnight blue off the shoulder gown, her abundant cinnamon hair now piled atop her head. Her only ornament was a petite six pointed star in her hair; Sherlock did not miss the significance of the piece; pearls, peridots and a small central amethyst – the suffragette colours. She was exquisite, her neck, her delicate collar bones above her décolletage....was she trying to torture him? Why was it again, that he had agreed to put himself through this ridiculousness?

His response was minimal – he bowed slightly, and stood back to allow her into the drawing room, where she was soon subsumed into the chatter and gaiety of that candle-lit, evergreen decorated chamber. 

Interminable minutes – hours? - passed with Sherlock leaning morosely against the wood panelling in the quietest corner of the room. It appeared that Miss Hooper was indeed on a mission to torture him. Never had she happened to catch his eye more often, and never had that lady returned his looks with softer, more glowing expressions. It was utterly distracting and miserable. 

The next torture this evening held for him was upon him before he could react. Mary Watson, that bane of his existence (life was so much better when John lodged with him in Baker Street) was organising guests for a game of 'blind man's buff', saying loudly it was the perfect parlour game because it was the only one that Sherlock Holmes would take part in – given that all it involved was standing still, as he had been all evening. She followed this with a tinkling laugh, the veritable minx. 

He had thrown her his darkest look, and was making to leave the room for good this time, but suddenly Molly was in the middle of the room, a blindfold around her eyes, being spun around to disorientate her, and Mary Watson was beside him, a grip of iron on his arm pinning him in the room. 

Molly was standing poised, struggling to keep standing due to the dizziness, and Mary called out to her “over here!” Sherlock glared at her, and she looked up at him, raising a brow. “What? It is in the rules – one is allowed to call out!” 

He stood like an idiot because of course, Molly had followed the voice, thinking she was going to happen upon her friend, but of course, there was Molly, direct in front of him, her hands reaching, then on his chest. 

Oh, wonderful. This evening couldn't be bettered. 

Then the room seemed to disappear around him as Molly's hands moved to his arms. 

“Oh! One of the gentlemen!” She said. Her hands reached up and round, feeling his height and the width of his shoulders. She bit her lip. She went quiet, clearly having realised it was he. But she didn't take her hands away....in fact, she moved closer, so that her body was almost pressed against his. She reached up further, to feel the line of his jaw. Then one of her hands reached around to feel the hair at the back of his neck. Suddenly his heart was hammering, he was breathing faster, his eyes transfixed on her face. 

She said, with a smile that did things to him, “Sherlock Holmes”, and then she was removing the blindfold and moving away, and he became aware again of other people in the room, clapping and smiling. It became imperative that he got away from this place. He bowed slightly to Mary, still beside him and smiling broadly, about to make his excuses. Before he could, one of the guests near the window shouted for everyone's attention, pulling the curtain open so that people could see. The snow was coming down as a veritable storm, whipping across the window at top speed and so thick that is was almost like white fog. 

People, with genuine regret, began to agree that they would need to leave, and soon, or no one would be getting home. Many were luckily very local, and could walk, but one or two would be in carriages. Mary bustled, and Jane the maid was soon handing out cloaks, coats, hats and gloves at a rate of knots. 

Within minutes, the drawing room was empty save for himself and Molly, as John and Mary saw off the last of the guests from the front door. 

Molly Hooper, for her part, was trying to keep her courage. So far, all had gone as Mary had said it would. She could see that Holmes had been affected by her closeness, by her touch. But the snowstorm had ended the evening far quicker than Molly had been prepared for, and she wasn't sure she was ready to see this through. 

It was now or never, though. She had to do something, now, before he left. Molly moved to the sideboard and poured herself a huge measure of sherry. She turned to Sherlock, swallowed, and said “Mr Holmes, there was something I wanted to discuss with you, so I wonder if you would sit with me a moment?” 

Sherlock looked forbidding, reluctant. Molly tried to hold to her self belief. She sat on the window seat, and indicated for him to join her there. 

Molly threw back the entire glass of sherry, fighting the urge to cough. She felt the wooziness of it almost instantly. Sherlock sat opposite her, a greek god, chiselled in the shadowed light of the room, highlighted by the white of the snow outside. 

Her heart hammered. “Mr Holmes. Sherlock” she began. Then she lost her courage. “Actually, would you do me the kindness of bringing me another of those sherries?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and quirked a smile, but he did as she asked and handed it to her, taking his seat facing her again. She took a large sip. Then another. She finished the whole thing. He looked confused. She felt a rather floaty feeling now, a pleasant sense of courage returning.

She stood up, and stood in front of him. He regarded her silently from his seat, looking ever more guarded. It really was now or never. Mary had said, physical contact. Molly moved closer to him. His eyes widened, then narrowed. She reached out for his hand. He did not move away. As her hand slipped in to his, the feel of his skin against hers caused her breath to stop and all thought to fall away. 

She knew then that she couldn't follow any plan, because this was really him in front of her; she couldn't even remember a plan or anything that Mary had said. All that she could retain, the only thought in her head, was that she would regret it forever if she didn't show him how much she loved him. It didn't matter if he didn't love her back, if they both went off on their different life paths. 

So it was that instead of a well planned seduction of Sherlock Holmes, what actually happened was that Molly Hooper stood simply in front of him, her frank brown eyes looking directly into his soul, one small hand bravely taking his, before she quickly bought his hand to her lips, taking it in both her hands, and kissed it, her expression crumpling, tears beginning from her closed eyes. 

Sherlock was lost. He stood. His free hand went to her waist, pulling her to him, and within not even a second he had the other hand free and on her face, tilting it so that he could kiss her lips. 

Never had he imagined that a woman would approach him in such a way – how typically brave, straightforward, so very Molly – how incredibly, unimaginably arousing! He couldn't stop kissing her, deepening it, trying to show her as clearly as she had shown him...

With truly terrible timing, the drawing room door opened and the Watsons arrived back in the room along with Jane, the maid. On hearing the first noise of the door Molly had broken away from him but he was very aware that it would be very apparent what had been going on. Mary's broad grin showed Sherlock that she was not one whit surprised by the situation she found them in, but she made no mention of it. 

Sherlock was not a man to waste time nor for the social niceties. 

“Mary, I understand that Molly is staying in your guest room. There is something particular I wish to say to her, so we will repair to her room if you don't mind”. He made to leave the room, turning to offer an imperious hand to Molly. 

Poor John Watson was taken somewhat by surprise at this suggestion even from his unconventional friend, and he said “I say Holmes! Yet again it appears that I must protest at your conduct -”

Mary kissed him on the cheek gently, interrupting his flow of thought. 

Quietly, she said to him “Let them be, John, they are both grown adults. Besides, I have some news I wish to share with you myself”. 

As Sherlock fairly pulled Molly from the room he turned at the door and said as a parting comment “Indeed. My congratulations, Mary”. 

John looked between Mary and Sherlock and back again, as if he were watching a tennis match. He said “Congratulations? Mary? You mean......”

Molly didn't hear the rest, Sherlock was moving too fast, and they were up the stairs and outside her door before she knew it. Her hand was still on the door handle when he kissed her again, and the force of his passion had her pressed up against the door frame. She threw her arms around his neck, returning his kiss desperately. The rush of love she had felt for him when she had taken his hand downstairs was replaced by a rush of arousal the likes of which she had simply not been prepared for; and when he pressed against her and she felt the hard outline of his excitement against her stomach, it took all the breath from her body, and she was mortified to hear her own moan against his mouth, and her panting breaths when he broke away, looking wrecked himself. 

“Dear God, Molly. You are driving me insane”. His voice was a low rumble in her ear. Then he opened the door and they were in the room. He reached behind her to close, and lock, the door. She was breathless again. She wanted to kiss him once more but didn't dare to lean in to him herself. 

He stood in front of her, reaching up one of his hands to touch her neck, her collarbone, the flesh of her breast above her dress. “I've been wanting to do this all evening”. He said. 

He appeared to be fighting an internal battle with himself, then he shook his head almost imperceptibly and said “Molly, I can't offer you anything that you want. If I marry, my wife would spend her life as a target for the entire criminal class of London, indeed more probably, of Europe”. 

Molly went to sit on the bed. He followed, sitting next to her, both of them looking at the fire burning low in the grate. 

She didn't look at him as she replied. 

“Hmm. Indeed, I am sure you are right”. 

“My life is against all domesticity. I am available at all times of day and night to be called away to cases, without notice”. 

“You are”. Molly nodded.

“I am not a good man, Molly. My temper is faulty in the extreme. When I have no cases I am a terrible man to live with. I indulge in the use of cocaine...”

Still, they sat shoulder to shoulder looking at the fire. 

“I am well aware of these things, Holmes. The cocaine I agree is a most unhelpful strategy”. 

“But – for the first time in my life, I cannot deny, that” he broke off, took hold of her shoulders, hard, and kissed her again, “oh, god – I cannot deny that I want you”. 

Molly couldn't bear the hopeless look on his face a moment longer. “Sherlock, surely you have gathered from my previous role at Barts, that I am not a conventional person, I never wanted the conventional life?” 

He stared at her. “But” he said, slowly “Molly, I won't allow you to suggest I keep you as a mistress – I won't allow you to -” 

Molly shook her head. “Not that, but – there must be another way, if we want to be together, I think. What I mean is, I think I could be an unconventional sort of wife. A register office marriage can be private..a man of your abilities, you spend your life outwitting the criminals of London...just because we would be married need not mean I am with you all the time nor you with me. I can keep my own modest establishment somewhere, my own employment and occupation. And when you could be with me, you would be.” she shrugged. 

Sherlock gripped her waist, hard. He looked intense, serious, biting his lip. “You make it sound possible. Good god, Molly Hooper, you make it sound right”. He bent his head to kiss her again, more gently this time, more sensual, and Molly found herself melting against him. She felt his tongue lick against her lips and then penetrate into her mouth, making her groan with surprised arousal. Each small noise she couldn't suppress, seemed to inflame Sherlock further, until they were laid on the bed, he laying half on top of her, her arms around his neck, buried in his hair, with him pressing his very evident arousal into her side as his hands roamed over and under her gown. Molly had never felt anything like this in her life, fierce, piercing pleasure coupled with a throbbing desire at her core. 

Breaking away from her lips reluctantly, Sherlock laid his forehead on hers, his breath tumultuous. “Molly, you have been torturing me”. Molly smiled, bit her lip, reached down to try to touch his hardness, unable to stop herself. Sherlock breathed out raggedly, allowing her to explore so far as she could with them both clothed. He caught her wrist. 

“Oh, god Molly – stop. You ask too much of me if you think I can insist, but I ask you to stop. I want you to marry me, and I want our first time to be somewhere other than the Watson's guest room, with Mary Watson waiting next door for 'news'....”

Molly smiled broadly, but through tears. She let Sherlock lead her to sit on edge of the bed again. Mirroring her actions of earlier, he brought one of her hands up to his lips and kissed it. 

“I have a particular question to ask you, Molly.” 

She nodded, smiling happily at him. 

“What do you think of a trip to Islington with Watson and I on Boxing Day? Lestrade has a case – a respectable old lady, a cardboard box, and two human ears – from different people. Will you come?”

Molly Hooper threw her head back and laughed. “Yes, Sherlock. My answer is yes. I will come”.


End file.
